


A Covert Operation

by AdAstra (smut_fairy)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, F/M, Friends With Benefits, definitely heavy on the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-01-06 17:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12215838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smut_fairy/pseuds/AdAstra
Summary: "You know," she says, that old, familiar gleam in her eye that can only spell trouble for Bellamy. "The sex was always good with you.""What exactly are you proposing?""We've got that house, that big bed all to ourselves for as long as this assignment lasts. And we are supposed to be newlyweds. I'm suggesting we make our act... extremely convincing."-----aka, Bellamy and Clarke are ex-somethings (though neither of them is sure exactly what), undercover, and posing as a married couple. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a mini-chapter prologue just... because I felt like it, really. To set up the story and set the tone. This fic will have it all: fwb, fake dating, exes who are still hot for each other, a little bit of mutual pining, and, of course, a healthy amount of smut. I have no idea how long it will go or when I'll get the next bit up but I hope you enjoy this taste of what's to come!

**_Six years earlier_ **

 

At first, Bellamy isn't sure what woke him.

He feels loose and warm like he always does in the mornings, his bed the softest place he's ever been, never wanting to move. Cracking open one bleary eye, he sees by the quality of the light that it's still close enough to dawn to justify postponing his morning routine a little while longer -

And then all thought is chased from his mind when Clarke wraps her lips around his dick.

Bellamy groans and lets his eyes fall closed, his hand reaching automatically to tangle in her hair, drag his nails lightly against her scalp like she likes. Her low sound of approval crackles with the remnants of sleep and he feels himself stir. As if he hadn't been half hard before she got her tongue involved.

She keeps to his head, sucking sweetly at it and stroking her fingertips lightly where she cradles the rest of his shaft. No matter how much he moans or how hard he gets, she doesn't take him deeper, doesn't give it to him any fiercer. He lets the gentle waves of pleasure wash over him, pulling him further and further into consciousness with every hollow of her cheeks and swirl of her tongue. Warmth begins to curl in his gut. It isn't building - yet - but it's so fucking _good_ he never wants it to end.

Clarke releases him with a wet noise that gets lost beneath Bellamy's whine of protest. He hears her chuckle, feels her fingers more firm on him as she lifts his cock so she can give his balls the same playful treatment. Her thumb begins to circle his tip. When she collects a spurt of precum and brings it to her lips for a taste, his eyes pop open.

She stares him down as she flickers her tongue out at her own finger, then takes it far deeper into her mouth than is really necessary. With her blonde hair rumpled from the night before, her blue eyes trained deviously on his, and Bellamy's oldest, most worn-in Quantico t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, she looks like something straight out of his fantasies.

Only he could never have dreamt up something as good as this.

Case in point, she sweeps her gaze over his half-wrecked form, then shuffles up the bed until her knees bracket his hips and her face hovers over his. Bellamy's hands fly up to grip her waist when she sinks down on him in one smooth motion, her lips curled into a tantalizing smile.

He has to know what it tastes like.

He surges upward for a kiss, then tears his mouth away to find her neck because - fuck, morning breath isn't a good look on either of them. Clarke laughs and bites at his nose in reproach, the sound bringing a smile to his lips.

She sets a steady pace, riding him with a swift rock-thrust that makes those ripples of pleasure grow to full-sized waves. Scratch whatever he'd said before about his bed being the softest place he's ever been; nothing and no one has ever been as luxurious as being inside of Clarke's perfect pussy. She's not even taking all of him and still her hot, soft walls clenching around him is driving him slowly out of his mind.

It's obvious when she finds the perfect angle to get her clit to drag against him, because her breath hitches and she repeats the motion. Each time she does, an ecstatic noise falls from her lips, her movements growing jerky and picking up their pace. He swivels his hips the next time she takes him in and she gasps, high in her throat.

So close. She must be so close. He hopes she is, because the flush in her cheeks and the bright spark in her eyes are far too pretty a picture for him to last much longer.

He manages to keep from coming until she has, but only just. Through the haze of the afterglow, he feels Clarke grin against his chest as she flops off his dick and to the side. She doesn't make it very far. Her legs are still flung across his body, the back of her hand resting against his heaving chest as they both grin up at the ceiling.

"Good morning to you, too."

She turns her grin on him, bright and more than a bit mischievous.

"It's always nice to get in a workout before class."

He snorts and sits up, reaching across her for his glasses.

"A workout before your workout, really. Aren't you in the gym first thing?"

"Then call this a warmup."

She watches with undisguised interest as he searches his floor for her pants. If she keeps lying there looking like that, he'll never let either of them leave this room.

"Is that where you tell your roommate you've been?" He teases, locating her jeans and tossing them to her. " _Warming up_?"

"She knows I'm hooking up and she knows I want to keep it private. Lucky for me, Anya isn't the prying type."

She tugs off his shirt and his brain short-circuits for the briefest of moments, as it always does when he catches a glimpse of her breasts. His recovery time is improving, honestly. He's able to tear his eyes away _before_ she starts smirking at him.

"Lucky for you, too," Clarke adds.

Bellamy frowns.

"I told you, I don't mind if anyone finds about about us fucking. They already know we're friends. And you aren't my student, so - "

"There are repercussions besides the official ones," she says, sounding annoyed. "Everyone would assume I was screwing my way into better assignments."

He catches her where she's shimmying into her jeans, pulling her in for a quick kiss.

"You're right. I'm sorry, and of course I won't say anything." He grins. "Other than to say, if you want a better field placement, you should be sleeping with Indra, not with me."

"Shit, you mean I blew you for nothing?"

The glint is back in her eye so Bellamy just rolls his and smacks her ass, then searches for his shirt.

"It wasn't for nothing. It was for a good cause."

"Getting laid is a pretty good cause," she laughs. "Can I use your toothpaste? I forgot mine."

"Yeah, go ahead."

Conversation drifts in and out as they finish getting ready. Domesticity like this would usually have Bellamy running for the hills, but he knows that Clarke is every bit as opposed to relationships right now as he is.

He's only got this training position for a few more months, and she'll graduate from Quantico next year, and then they'll go their separate ways. They could be assigned anywhere, doing anything, with very little say in the matter. Getting attached would only complicate things.

Still, when she goes to leave, he traps her against the door, kissing her long and dirty. A promise for next time, though both of their schedules are such hell they never know when next time will be.

She looks a little bit dazed when he pulls back.

"You gonna write me a note if I'm late to class, Agent Blake?"

He doesn't know what his face does, but her eyes darken with whatever they see there and a licentious smile pulls at her lips.

"You like it when I call you that, huh?" One of her hands slides to palm his cock, the other cupping his neck to pull him down so she can give him her best fuck-me whisper. " _Agent Blake_."

A growl escapes his chest, the likes of which he's never heard. He pins her to the door for another wet kiss, the words ringing in his ears as he licks into her mouth. Though she looks smug as anything when he lets her go, he can't bring himself to regret it.

"It's alright," he mutters against her lips.

Her gloating smile ruins it.

"I'll keep that in mind."

She pecks him on the lips and gives his cock one last squeeze before she slips out into the hall.

He lets his head fall against the door, grinning and grateful for their staggered exits so he'll have a few extra minutes to collect himself.

Clarke Griffin may not be his for keeps, but damn if they aren't going to have some fun while they can.


	2. Warm Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter I told someone this was going to be 50% plot and 50% smut but then I wrote this and realized I don't care all *that* much about the plot. Well, I care about the development of their relationship and all the FBI/Agent tropes to come but probably 80% of this chapter is porn so consider this a correction.

The house is tiny, but the bed is huge.

It's a contradiction that Bellamy does not let himself linger upon. He and Clarke will be living and working in extremely tight quarters, he knew that much before he even saw the place, a townhouse on the fringe of the most expensive part of Polis that the FBI seized when they shut down the meth lab operating out of it.

It's not like he had much time to consider all the implications anyway. The Bureau had been waiting for a break in the Wallace case, an opportunity to slip someone in undercover. Once the window had opened, they'd had to move quickly. The time between Bellamy being called into Pike's office and arriving at his new home for the next indeterminate amount of time was less than forty eight hours. He'd barely had time to call Octavia and let her know he'd be unreachable.

Not that she's likely to try to get in touch.

"You ready for tomorrow?" Clarke asks when he sinks tiredly onto the couch beside the armchair she's nestled into.

It really has been a whirlwind couple of days.

"I better be. Can't afford to fuck this one up."

"If you need to run through your persona again - "

"Michael Moore, thirty-one. Ex-military - which I am, so that won't be much of a problem - looking to get into private security. Married, no kids, no siblings."

"Which is going to be the hardest part for you to fake," Clarke interrupts, a smirk overtaking her face.

Bellamy dips his head.

"I'll grant you that."

He'll be joining Cage Wallace's private security team, which the Bureau thinks is a stepping stone to becoming one of the hired thugs who carry out the bulk of the Wallaces' dirty work.

He won't be getting near the money laundering, speculation, or any of the more high-brow crimes the Wallace syndicate has their fingers in. Clarke has been working as Dante Wallace's personal assistant for months, which is how the Bureau found out about the security team opening in the first place. But the higher ups keep themselves distant from the more underhanded crime, and the Bureau needed someone to come at it from the other direction.

Enter Bellamy.

Finding out that he'd be posing not only undercover, but undercover as Clarke's husband, has taken up about ninety percent of Bellamy's brainpower since Pike broke the news. He wonders if she wishes she got to keep her bed to herself. He wonders if he's the only one thinking about the bed situation, despite his valiant efforts to think about literally anything else.

"Anything I should know that's not in the file?" He asks, pushing that thought aside. "Stuff Caroline Moore mentioned about her husband to her coworkers?"

"Caroline Moore is extremely private," Clarke says, prim. "It's taken her a while to warm to them. I'm sure she'll start opening up more, now that - "

"Now that she doesn't have to worry about keeping track of her fabrications about her husband?"

"I wasn't going to put it like that."

"Well, it's good thinking, however you were going to put it. Makes my job easier."

"You want me to quiz you? For old times' sake?"

Bellamy considers for a moment.

"I'm honestly not convinced it would do me any good. My brain is mush."

Clarke hums sympathetically, her clear, blue gaze sparkling with mischief. She's as beautiful as he remembers.

He's trying not to let it get to him.

"So," he says instead. "What do married couples do on a Friday night?"

"Pretty much the same thing single people do on a Friday night. Why? What would you be doing right now?"

"Probably at my friend's bar. She works Fridays, so I go and hang out with her and let her try to wingman me if I feel like getting laid."

"I wouldn't think you'd need much help," she says, perfectly innocent. As if she doesn't know exactly how much game he has.

"We used to date. She dumped me and I think she feels guilty about it. But what are friends for, if not being weirdly over-invested in your sex life?"

"Hear, hear."

"What about you?" He asks, nudging her with his foot. "Is Caroline Moore a partier? What would you be doing if I weren't here?"

"Still not getting laid, that's for fucking sure," Clarke snorts. "She was always married, even if we didn't know to whom. And before that, even Clarke Griffin wasn't getting a whole lot of action."

Bellamy pauses.

"Not for lack of offers, I assume," he says, careful. She smirks anyway.

"No. Bad breakup. And then, I don't know. It was too much work to find someone, try to figure out if I was into them, if they were into women... I did try, once or twice, but the sex was - less than satisfying."

"Too much pain for not enough gain."

"Something like that."

They sit in silence for a moment. He's trying to figure out where to take the conversation next when she speaks.

"You know," she says, that old, familiar gleam in her eye that can only spell trouble for Bellamy. "The sex was always good with you."

His mouth goes dry. He hadn't even let himself wonder, but if she's suggesting what he thinks she's suggesting -

"What are you proposing?"

She shrugs demurely, knowing she's captured his interest.

"We've got this house, that big bed all to ourselves for as long as this assignment lasts. And we are supposed to be newlyweds. I'm suggesting we make our act... extremely convincing."

At her words, his breathing goes shallow and he feels his eyes darken. He has to adjust himself in his seat, suddenly needing more space between his legs. Her eyes flicker down to his lap, her lips curving with approval.

"Convincing," he repeats, voice gruff. He needs her to say it. Needs... something more explicit, something more than just a sign from her. He never took advantage of her before and he won't start now, just because he's been assigned to be her husband. "Convincing, how?"

Clarke rises slowly, her long, smooth legs unfurling from where they've been tucked beneath her. She's got an old flannel and cutoff sweatpants on, but all he can think about as she crosses the room is how inexplicably sexy she is. He clenches his jaw, tensing his muscles so he doesn't reach for her, doesn't pull her in. It's all Clarke as she lowers herself onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and wraps her arms around his neck.

"I think we ought to really get into character," she says, her own voice low and raspy, before she leans in and brushes a kiss across his lips.

"Clarke," he mutters, hands finding her hips of their own volition and just holding on. 

"I think," she continues, feathering her mouth along his jaw. "That your wife has been on her own for months, and she's in need of a good, hard _fuck_."

Bellamy's restraint falters. All at once, he tightens his grip on her hips and kisses her, grinning against her lips. She kisses him back with enthusiasm, the two of them making it wet and fierce as she presses herself firmer against his legs, already desperate for friction.

They're making out furious and sloppy like teenagers who have the house to themselves for the first time, only this house is theirs for the foreseeable future, and there's no chance of anyone walking in on them. Bellamy tries to temper the pace, framing her jaw in his hands and deepening his own rhythm.

But Clarke has never been one for being told what to do or how to do it, and now is no exception. She grinds down toward his crotch, making frustrated noises when she can't get the pressure she wants. When he traces behind her ear with his tongue, still attempting to drag her tempo, she bites down on his shoulder. _Hard_.

Bellamy chuckles.

"You know, I thought you were exaggerating with that 'in need' bit, but you really are hard up, aren't you?"

"I didn't even let you make it here one night before I jumped you," she breathes, a whiny undercurrent to her tone as she scrambles for the buttons on her shirt. "What do you think?"

"I think Caroline Moore could be the kind of person who owns a vibrator."

He pushes at her hips so she moves back up toward his knees. Clarke protests, but goes when he slips a hand under the hem of her shirt to guide her skin-to-skin. He parts his legs before he resettles her over him, so that her center is flush against his thigh and she can get what she needs. Her eyes flutter closed, her head tipping back against his shoulder as she rocks her hips up and down along his leg.

It's fucking filthy. He's stiff as a board. Flexing his thigh, he tries to help her along.

"Let me get this straight," Clarke says, her breathing growing heavier. "You're telling me a vibrator could do your job as well as you can? You must have really lost your touch in the past six years."

Bellamy laughs and slips his hand inside the collar of her shirt. She hadn't managed to get it completely unbuttoned before he derailed her, and the gaping it was doing proved too tempting for him to keep his hands away. Her chest is _magnificent_ , the swell of her tits soft and firm in all the best places. Through her flimsy bralette, he can feel in great detail how peaked her nipples are, how turned on she is. His lips latch onto the juncture of her neck and shoulder so he can slant his eyes to watch as he traces around her nipple with his thumb.

"You seem to be liking my touch just fine," he points out, tweaking sharply when she has the audacity to scoff.

"I'd like it a lot better if you were where I wanted you instead of getting sidetracked by my boobs."

"And where is it you want me?"

His fingers drift down through the valley of her breasts, then back up until his hand lays flat against her sternum. She huffs.

"You know where."

"Can't quite put my finger on it," he teases, tapping his fingers pointedly against her collar bone.

His other arm is wrapped firmly around her waist, helping her work herself down on him. Now, though, he tightens his grasp and stills her motions. Clarke groans.

"Motherfucker," she grumbles, grabbing the hand on her chest and yanking it down past the band of her shorts, straight into her underwear.

Bellamy's breath comes sharp, a laugh of disbelief that he's here again, and of admiration for this woman who knows exactly what she wants and doesn't rest until she gets it.

"You better put your fingers on it now," she demands, circling her hips as much as she can. "Or do I need to draw you a map?"

"I think I'm starting to recognize my surroundings."

He slips a finger into the well of her arousal, letting the movement of her hips do the work of spreading it around her labia. Clarke keens when her clit bumps against his knuckle, then again when the tips of two fingers dip inside her.

Bellamy massages her folds with the flat of his fingers together, not avoiding her clit or her entrance, but not paying either any special attention. Annoyed, Clarke's fingernails dig into his forearm, the fingers of her other hand twisting into the curls at the back of his head.

"If you don't get to work, I'm leaving you for my vibrator."

"Okay, okay." He laughs. "I've got you."

With that, he sinks two fingers into her, meeting no resistance. She's sopping wet inside, nearly at the edge before he's really fingered her in earnest. Her head drops forward.

"Fuck," he moans, lipping the bump of her spine at the base of her neck. "How long has it been?"

"Eight months?" He loosens his hold so she can ride down on his fingers in any way she wants. "Maybe closer to nine at this point."

Bellamy curls his fingers inside of her, pressing the heel of his hand down on her mons. Clarke doesn't slow the frantic swivel of her hips, chasing her release with a single-minded drive that makes him feel sorry for every perp who has ever crossed her path. Suddenly needing to bring her over the edge, he vibrates his hand against her, licking and sucking at her neck until she flies apart. He picks up her pace, gyrating his own hips to keep hers working through her orgasm though she has come so unraveled with bliss that she doesn't even seem to notice she has stopped.

She gasps and swears and doesn't seem any less keyed up by the time she shoves his hand away, oversensitive. Instead, she scrambles up and turns back around, shoving her shorts and panties down in one swift move before clambering back onto his lap.

"You need another?" He laughs, incredulous but already reaching between her legs again. She swats his hand away and reaches for his belt.

"I want your dick in me."

She pulls his wallet from his back pocket, going straight for the condom he keeps there. A move that reminds him just how well they knew each other back in the day. Or just how good of a profiler she is. One or the other.

"Fuck." His hips stutter at her words, his cock bobbing, free and hard from his open fly. She rolls the condom expertly, licking her hand and beginning to slick him up before his brain has even fully processed what's happening.

"Wait, wait." His grip on her legs tightens and she freezes instantly.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm - "

"No, it's - " He huffs, wondering if there's any way he can de-escalate the situation without needing to immediately go jack himself off somewhere. "You don't owe me, okay? You needed to get off and I wanted to help but that doesn't mean - "

"Oh." She smiles and leans in to bite his lip. "I promise I don't feel obligated. I just really, really like your cock."

She swallows his ensuing groans with a devilish smile.

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure." She pecks him on the lips again, swiping her tongue dirty across her bite marks at the last second. "We good?"

Bellamy clears his throat.

"By all means. Have at it."

Without further ceremony, she tilts her hips forward and lowers herself onto him, not bothering with going slow or taking time to adjust. She must already be wet enough for that, he figures as she settles straight into a businesslike pace.

Goal-oriented and competent aren't traits he generally considers turn-ons, but in Clarke Griffin they get him hotter than he would have ever believed possible.

Her thrusts start small, building from a short back-and-forth to slide further and further along his shaft with each movement until she's pulling almost all the way off and letting gravity do the work of slamming her back down upon him. Bellamy lets his hands slide around to her ass, lifting and steadying as he meets her, thrust for thrust.

It's familiar in all the best ways, the noises he knocks out of her when flesh slaps against flesh, the memories surfacing of how she likes his teeth against her jaw, the shape and feel of her around him.

"Okay," she pants. Her smile is wide and her skin is glowing from exertion, wisps of blonde falling around her face. "I guess you've still got it."

Bellamy chuckles breathlessly and pushes his hands up her sides, cupping her tits as they bounce but not stilling them.

"You think you'll let me stay?"

"I'd say you've almost earned your keep." She braces her hands on the back of the couch, leaning forward. Her face is so close he has to tilt his chin up and kiss her, slumping further so he can hit that spot that makes her toes curl.

"Better stick the landing, then."

He presses one hand over her stomach, can feel his cock bump against it inside of her, and her jaw falls open. Her eyes lock on his, but almost in a way that suggests she isn't really seeing him. That she might be seeing something beyond reality. That she's transcending to a new plane of pleasure.

As gently as he can, not sure if she's still too sensitive from before, he grazes his thumb over her clit. Clarke comes with a full-body shudder, clenching down on him so tight he can't help the stutter of his hips up into hers as he releases his load.

For a moment, the whole world goes still. He may even black out. _Clarke fucking Griffin_ is all he can think as he bottoms out inside her, both of them clinging to each other for dear life as they come back to themselves. And if they keep leaning into each other as their skin cools and everything goes soft and hazy, Bellamy doesn't think it has to mean anything except that she might have _literally_ fucked his brain out.

"So that happened," he says at last, fingertips stroking her spine, exploring.

Clarke's laugh is muffled in his chest. She pushes herself up and off him, turning long-ways on the couch so that her feet are in his lap and her hand is flung over the arm of the couch as her breathing returns to normal.

"Welcome home, honey."

"Thanks." He pats her foot, a whole new kind of exhausted. "It's good to be here."

 

They both fall asleep on the couch that night, neither one of them using the enormous bed waiting in the other room. Bellamy wakes up with a crick in his neck and his jeans kicked down around one ankle, his face buried in golden hair and a pale hand fisted in his shirt to keep its owner from falling off. As he readjusts so that she's less in danger (more atop him), settling back in for a few more hours of sleep, he realizes he's not worried about this assignment in the slightest.

Being Michael Moore is going to be a piece of cake.


	3. Stakeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been so long since I updated this that even I forgot what Bellamy’s undercover name was and other plot-related things. In case you’re in the same boat, it was Michael Moore.

Being the newbie on the team, Bellamy pulls mostly night shifts the first week, meaning he doesn't meet either of the Wallaces. The only person of interest he meets in his first week is Emerson, head of the security detail.

It means he doesn't see much of Clarke either. That's why he's in such a good mood Friday afternoon as he loiters in the parking lot in Michael Moore's gold Honda Civic, waiting to pick his 'wife' up from work. He's missed her in a weird sort of way he hadn't expected.

From her smile when she exits the building, it seems as if she's equally excited to see him.

"Hi honey," she says as she slides into the passenger seat, leaning across the center console to kiss him fleetingly on the lips. "Curb-side pickup? I could get used to being chauffeured."

"Only the best for my sweetie pie," he says with a straight face. She laughs. "Speaking of which, we're all stocked up for date night."

"Oh really?" She pulls the zippered tote bag from the back seat, finding their surveillance kit packed away inside, along with some snacks Bellamy tossed in for if they get hungry on their stakeout.

He hadn't gotten any information on the Wallaces, but he'd tailed Emerson the day before to a bar, where a well-placed bribe and a lose-lipped drunk relayed half of an overheard phone conversation, wherein Emerson planned to visit a self-storage facility at some point over the weekend.

He and Clarke had volunteered to take the Friday night watch, as their backup teams had families to go home to on the weekends, and for the foreseeable future, he and Clarke had only each other.

They swap cars in a lot around the corner - another agent returning the gold Honda to the Moores' driveway, where it could be easily accounted for if any curious eyes went looking - and wait there for Emerson to take his leave from work.

And wait.

And wait.

"I forgot how boring stakeouts are," Clarke complains. The sun had set almost an hour before, Emerson's pickup one of the few vehicles remaining in the near-deserted parking lot.

"Better or worse than ordering Dante's lunch?"

"Worse," she says after a moment of consideration. "At least then I have something to do, even if it doesn't live up to my incredible potential."

"Someone restless?" He teases. "We could figure out something to do. I Spy, maybe. Or you can quiz me on my back story again."

Clarke pauses for a beat, then reaches across the console again, her hand landing dangerously high on his thigh.

"I can think of something else I'd rather do," she purrs, stroking her fingertips back and forth over the denim at his hip. Bellamy swallows.

"That wasn't really what I had in mind."

"You don't want to?"

Her hand slows its path, following the crease of his thigh toward his inseam. When Bellamy looks over at her, she's practically fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"I didn't say that."

His voice comes out raw. Clarke's smile is predatory as she pops the release on his seatbelt, an act that should not make heat flash in his core, but _god_ , it does.

"Keep an eye out for Emerson," she tells him, caressing the growing tent in his jeans and smirking when his breaths grow shallow. "Mine will be monitoring another situation."

"Fuck." He forces his gaze to the road. "Okay, Clarke. It's your show, Princess."

"Fucking right."

Her fingers tighten, squeezing his hard-on and feeling it grow firmer beneath her touch before finally, blessedly undoing the button with a flick of her thumb. When she reaches in to free him, he grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

"Relax," she croons, beginning a slow, lazy path up and down his shaft. "I want you feeling good."

"Not gonna be a difficult goal to meet," he grits out.

She switches from a long up-and-down to shorter strokes that begin at the base of his dick and work their way up toward the tip. By the time she gets there, she has enough precum to coat her hand and slick him up good. Bellamy's eyes nearly roll back in his head.

He looses a shuddering breath and can feel the smugness radiating off of her.

"That's it. Let me take care of you."

"Okay," Bellamy relents, naming each car in his mind as it drives by in an attempt to stay focused. _Blue Toyota. White Ford. White Nissan. Silver Nissan._ "But I'm going to owe you one. And I plan to deliver when we get home."

Clarke smiles and hikes her professional work skirt up so that she can get her knees up on the seat, leaning across the console.

"I can live with that," she agrees, and swirls her tongue around the head of his dick.

Bellamy groans, knocking his head against the headrest. _Green minivan. Black Honda,_ he thinks, Clarke's tongue fluttering along his length threatening to wipe his mind entirely blank.

She gives him wet licks back and forth along the vein in his cock, light one moment and filthy the next in magical ways that make him hope the Bureau doesn't have any bugs in this car, for the sounds he's making, to say nothing of her enjoyment. By the time she takes him into her mouth, he's losing his mind from the reverberations of her sultry moans around him. He even catches her rubbing her thighs together, desperate for her own friction.

Well, Bellamy can help her out with that.

He tucks her hair behind her ear, giving himself a moment to trace the stretch of her jaw, to swipe his thumb across her lips fitted over his dick, before following the line of her spine down her neck, across her back, and straight over her backside. She inhales sharply through her nose when he works her skirt higher, enough to give him access to her panties.

"Let me take care of you while you take care of me," he urges, slipping a finger beneath the elastic. Clarke whines and bobs her head enthusiastically, taking him further into the soft, wet warmth of her mouth - towards her throat - in what he guesses is agreement.

"Fuck, you're wet," he hisses, tracing a finger down her slick folds and circling her opening tauntingly. _Red station wagon. Silver Lexus. Soaked panties. Clarke's arousal. Clarke's heat. Fuck._

"What is it about this that got you so keyed up?" He asks, skipping further teasing and plunging a finger inside of her. She whimpers, pressing her hips back against his hand. He twirls his fingers in a circle.

"You like sucking my cock?"

Her hips follow the motion and after letting her ride the swivel for a moment, he abruptly picks up his pace and reverses directions, feeling her walls clench down around him as his finger works against her movement rather than with it. Clarke takes him deep into her throat, the snug fit nothing short of pure bliss. Bellamy's voice is sandpaper as he struggles to continue, giving her a second finger.

"Or is it that you like sucking my cock _in public_? Where anyone driving by could see us?"

Clarke's throat begins to spasm, her walls pulsing as he scissors his fingers inside of her, and she pulls off of him with a gasp. Bellamy smooths a hand over her hair, driving his fingers harder and deeper inside of her, relentless. She may be trying to catch her breath, but he never said he'd make it easy on her. She gasps again and goes down on him again, matching the movements of his fingers with the working of her tongue. Bellamy groans.

"Fuck, how'd I get so lucky with this assignment? You're so fucking sexy, Clarke. So fucking good at this. Feel so fucking perfect around me." He babbles, crooking his fingers deep inside her and teasing at slipping her a third.

She withdraws and takes a few breaths, then goes down on him one last time, deepest yet and giving him her tongue along with it. Bellamy finds the telltale spot inside of her that he knows will make her come and grazes it with a crook of his fingers. The spasm of her throat around his dick and her walls around his fingers triggers the heat coiled at the base of his spine. It bursts, flooding him with a sharp, blinding light and a making his head spin.

When he comes back to himself, Clarke's head is still in his lap, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she tries to pull herself together. He strokes her cheek and tugs her skirt back over her ass before helping her sit up.

"What a way to kill some time," she says at last, the words scraping against her throat.

He laughs.

"I'll say."

Bellamy quickly retrieves some water from the surveillance bag and napkins from the glove compartment, cleaning himself up as she guzzles the water down. Emerson's truck is still motionless and dark in the parking lot, everything the same as it was ten minutes before, if not glowing a little around the edges.

A comfortable silence falls between them as they gather their wits, and then Clarke begins to laugh. It's a sound of disbelief and victory, of getting away with something they probably shouldn't have. After a moment, Bellamy chuckles right alongside her.

"I'm still paying you back when we get home."

"You don't have to do that." She crosses her bare feet on the dash. "You paid me pretty good just now."

"You gave me oral. I think it's only fair I get to go down on you for a good long while. I'm thinking right on the kitchen counter."

It's hard to tell in the darkness, but he thinks he sees her eyes flash.

"If that's what you think is fair, who am I to disagree?" She asks, half breathless again.

Bellamy makes himself look away from her rosy cheeks and dark eyes, back to the road. _Silver minivan. Gray Nissan,_ he thinks as he settles in for a long wait.

At least he's got something to look forward to.


End file.
